


Hiraeth

by Anzie (anzie)



Series: Hitman!AU [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Manipulation, Ex-Military Damen, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hitman Laurent, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, One-Sided Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Dynamics, Rating May Change, Self-Destruction, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Regent is a warning, Trust Issues, Warnings May Change, does this count as a slow burn?, this looks hella dark but i promise there are actual emotions involved between D/L
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-04 20:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anzie/pseuds/Anzie
Summary: Burdened with a desire to keep Auguste safe, Laurent deVere sold his soul to his uncle for a deadly legacy - one he barely escaped alive. Years later, he reignites his contract in a desperate bid to save Nicaise. But with Auguste gone, and Vere-Arles Corp in the hands of his uncle, Laurent doesn't expect anyone to try and save him.Least of all Damen.----Or: the hitman au nobody asked for.





	1. Prologue

“Not over leaving Laurent behind, yet?”

Auguste deVere stirs out of his thoughts and looks over at his wife, her eyes warm above a smiling mouth. Her fist is propped under her chin as she leans against the side of the chauffeured car. Trees and cliffs flash by behind her, a blur of shadowy shapes to the naked eye.

Flashing Vivianne an easy grin, Auguste jokes, “I’m always sad when I don’t have my little brother nearby. Didn’t you hear? We’re inseparable.” Shifting away from the door, his fingers deftly undo his bowtie, which he tosses it to the floor with a deep sigh, slumping back in his seat with a swift glance out his window. The low moon glints off distant waves, and clouds hang heavy on the horizon. “I’m not sad that I can breathe properly again, though. Do you smell that, lover? It smells like freedom. For my neck.”

Vivianne rolls her eyes and picks the bowtie up from the floor delicately between two fingers. “You smell like sweaty boy to me.” Ignoring his sound of mock-anger, she drapes it around his neck and smiles at him teasingly. “We can still turn around to get him, you know. It’s not too late, and I’m sure there’ll be an empty seat on the flight. If not, we might be able to smuggle him back in checked baggage.”

Auguste kisses the tip of her nose. “I’m going to pretend I never heard that, or I might be tempted.”

“Smart.”

“He’ll come back when he’s ready. I think he needs a little more time away.”

Vivianne strokes his cheek, easily brushing aside his false bravado. No matter how hard he tries to hide it, she understands without a doubt the depth of Auguste’s love for his little brother, and how much he’s missed Laurent over the past few years. Lightly, she says, “Well, I think Laurent might be coming back for Christmas this year. He was dropping all sorts of hints… Nicaise would love to see his uncle again, it’s been too long for them. Though the white hairs they’d give me.” Vivianne fake-shudders, the pearls in her dark hair catching light when she shakes her head in amusement before giving into wistfulness. “Did you know Nicaise started reading because you mentioned how much Laurent liked books?”

Auguste hums when he thinks about their spitfire little boy. Nicaise was every bit the defiant brat that Laurent had been at twelve, but having dealt with the original little shit Auguste felt a little more prepared for Nicaise’s moods as a father. Their mannerisms and nervous tics were so similar that if he hadn’t known better, he’d have said Nicaise were Laurent’s child. Auguste’s thumb smooths over the back of Vivianne’s hand, and with a soft chuckle, he says, “That makes me nostalgic for my early twenties. Nicaise is just like Laurent at that age.”

“Bratty and stubborn?”

“Curious and insecure,” Auguste corrects, smiling.

Vivianne raises a teasing eyebrow at him. “I’m sorry, are we talking about the same child? _Our_ child?”

Auguste laughs again freely. “Nicaise will grow out of it,” he promises, reaching up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly. “Laurent did.”

“It _was_ nice to see him again,” Vivianne muses, turning the conversation back to Laurent. “He seemed a little more grounded.”

“Did he?” Auguste crinkles his brow slightly, mind casting back to the evening.

“Didn’t you think so?”

“I’m not…” Laurent _had_ been more present than Auguste had ever seen him of late – Auguste chalks that up to the distance his little brother has placed between himself and the poison of their father’s Vere-Arles. Even then, a memory nagged away the warmth of the evening, of Laurent furtively checking his phone and slipping out of the restaurant with a murmured excuse. The clarity in his brother’s eyes contradicted the unwound tension that lingered around Laurent’s shoulders and hands.

He shook the thought away with a wry smile. It has been years since knowing that his little brother had buckled under the weight of the Vere-Arles burden alone, and Auguste still finds himself looking for the distress signals that he had missed before. _Laurent is fine_ , he reminds himself. His unfettered smile, the sly jabs at both Auguste and Vivianne throughout the night, and the unbridled desire for stories of Nicaise were signs enough to prove Auguste’s paranoia wrong.

“Dollar for your thoughts, dear?”

Auguste rubs his forehead and smiles at his wife. “A dollar? That’s a little cheap, isn’t it?” He lets out a yell of laughter when Vivianne dives in with wriggling fingers, scooting back along the car seat. “No, wait, I submit, I submit!”

Crowing in victory, Vivianne pulls him close for a sweet kiss. He slides his hand into her pinned-up locks, body still shaking with the remnants of laughter, and his wife grins at him when she pulls away. Her fingers card slowly through his golden hair.

“Thoughts,” she prompts. “Or my next offer comes with more tickling.”

“God, Vivianne,  _this_ ishow Nicaise knows my weaknesses. I’m never waging a tickle war on him again.”

Vivianne laughs. “I’ll tell him a few more if you don’t start talking.”

Holding one hand out faux-defensively, Auguste pulls his wife closer to his side and kisses the top of her head. “I was just thinking about Laurent,” he admits.

Vivianne’s lips curve up, and she strokes his cheek fondly. “You old worrywart. You’ll get wrinkles if you keep up with this.”

“I didn’t even say what I was thinking _about_ ,” Auguste protests, turning his face into her hand. He sighs. “Didn’t he seem a little distracted to you?”

Her hand curls around his, squeezing lightly. “Auguste,” she says gently, “He’s grown up now.”

“I know _that.”_

“He can have his secrets too, you know.” Her fingers trail up and down his forearm. Her beautiful hazel eyes search his. “You’re looking for the right symptoms in the wrong places. He’s not a part of the company anymore, remember? Even if he wanted to be, he would never put you in the position to worry about him endlessly. He seems like he’s accepted it and moved on. You need to do the same.”

He drops his gaze, fingers curling around hers. “I just… all those _years_ , Vivianne, all that time I could have helped him… if I’d just pushed a little harder… made myself more available…”

“Auguste.” Vivianne’s hands cradle his face, forcing him to look at her. “Let it go, lover. He’s safe. You made sure of that.”

With a shaky exhale, Auguste drops his forehead against hers and closes his eyes. “Okay. Okay.” He swallows and takes a deep breath. “You’re right, I’m worrying too much about it. I’ll try to stop.”

“Just remember that he’s far out of the company’s reach now.”

Auguste smiles at her, forcing his fears back into its box. “Yes, my love. What would I do without you?” he says jokingly, twirling a fallen lock of her hair around his finger as he leans in for another kiss. Through his half-closed lids, Vivianne glows like the sun, outlined in brilliant, oncoming light.

Then she careens into him as the car skids sideways with the sound of crumpling metal. It flips, Auguste tossed like a ragdoll into the crash, his head bouncing off the glass behind him. His mind can’t keep up as images flash too fast past his eyes: through the blond hair obscuring his vision he sees his crotch, their driver’s limp hand caught mid-flail, and Vivianne’s tiny frame suspended in air when the car leaps once more against gravity.

A window rushes for his head; Auguste throws his arms up defensively, but one of them doesn’t move fast enough and the other doesn’t move.

Blackness.

* * *

Pain wakes him. He can feel his breath leaking out under his skin, stealing oxygen from where he needs it. Something rattles when his chest rises, and that hurts. His head feels numb, like when he’d spent all night looking after a sickly Laurent and woke up the next morning with a raging fever. His forehead throbs beneath that, a muted sense of discomfort against a vast ocean.

He can move the fingers on his left hand, the one not crushed under his own body. It’s barely there and slight, but that’s worth noting. Something’s wrong with his other arm - he can't make it slide out from beneath him. He can’t feel his feet, or anything below the waist. Anxiety spikes, then flattens under the force of his will. _I can deal with that later._

What is he missing?

 _Vivianne_.

She was in the car.

Auguste forces his eyes open. The stars wink down at him as though he hasn’t just been thrown around casually in five tons of metal like dirty laundry. Something flickers – flames – out of the corner of his right eye.

 _Vivianne_ , he tries to say, and her name comes out mangled by a pained, breathy moan. “Viv… ien...  _Vii…_ ”

His voice dies in his throat, or perhaps escapes into his body like the rest of his breath. He struggles to move his good arm and feels the ends of shattered bones click and scrape under his muscles. He moans again, sound wavering on a single syllable. “ _Vii…_ ”

There’s no answering sound of pain, but Auguste tries to crawl anyway, digging useless fingers into the soft earth. He tries to say her name again, but it gets lost somewhere from his lungs to his lips. His hand curls and uncurls against the dirt, and he can’t move his legs to lessen the strain on his arm.

Panic settles on his chest, his eager demon.

_He can’t move his legs._

But it’s hard to care when his eyes are so heavy, and his body is so cold. Auguste fights the relentless tug of sleep and chokes out a breathy gasp as his arm drags his body inches over disturbed grass. The earth tenses and gives way beneath his fingertips, crumbling uselessly. His muscles shake and fail, and no matter how hard he tries he cannot pull himself closer to the wreckage. To her.

The distant lights go blurry, and dark. The crackle of flames could be the hearth in their home, where Nicaise waits with his nose stuck in a book on the windowsill that Laurent claims as his own during his brief visits, where Vivianne would come up behind him in his study and rub the knots out of his shoulders. Laurent said he’d visit this year. It could be Christmas with the deVere brothers again, both wrapping their presents with layers and layers of paper and clear tape in a bid to delay the other their gift for as long as possible.

Cotton dims his thoughts, and he loses himself momentarily to the memory of tinsel and laughter.

Auguste feels the presence by his shoulder more than he sees the person. His lips are numb, like the rest of his face, but he tries to move them anyway. “ _Vii…_ _Lo…_ ” His voice is no more than a breath escaping into the cool night air.

Cold metal enters his hand, the one reaching out for the wreckage. A tinny, fading voice says, “ _Emergency, which service_?”

_Laurent?_

“ _Hello? Is anyone there?_ ”

“Brother,” the person by his side whispers, breath hot and alive against his ear, voice muddled by the haze that draws Auguste in. He fights it back for a moment, long enough to hear a broken-off sob and a strangled whisper: “My brother, forgive me.”

He sinks to the feeling of a warm hand on his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Auguste. :/ Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Terrorizing?” Laurent snorts._  
>   
>  _Damen shrugs. “You’re beautiful, a social celebrity, and you have a lot of fans. You can’t tell me you didn’t do anything with them.”_  
>   
>  _Laurent turns his gaze on him, expression unreadable. “I didn’t.”_  
>   
>  _“Really?”_  
>   
>  _“I’m not desperate enough that I need to soil myself with filth.”_  
>     
>   
> Moving is easier when someone shows up to help.

The gray skies of late morning have given way to a hesitantly sunny mid-afternoon, and Damen is no closer to finishing than he was when he started. He can’t wholly blame his own work ethic – for the past two days he’s been tossing things into overflowing boxes and wrestling tape across the openings – but he _has_ been startlingly sidetracked by the overwhelming number of memories he’s stuffing into cardboard.

It didn’t help that he’s working on his own – without the distraction of his friends, he finds himself cross-legged on the hardwood floor, perusing old pictures and running his fingers over the dull plaques of his childhood awards. He hadn’t even known he still kept these.

Placing the little trophy that he’d gotten for ‘Most Improved’ at grade three in with the box that held his soccer awards, Damen pushes the box as closed as it can possibly be and slaps tape over the opening. _There._ Now he just had to wait for Nik and Jord to get off work and help him move his stuff into the truck he’d rented for this very purpose. _If they don’t get distracted first_. He should shoot them a text to check if they were still coming to help him out, and maybe see if he can drag some of the lighter boxes to the truck. The mattress and table might be a little tricky…

With a long stretch and a low groan, Damen released the knots in his back, then rubs the back of his neck with a wince. Hunching over stuff and waiting around is killer; not for the first time, he wishes that he can just do it all on his own and _fuck_ what his doctor says – he _should_ be able to move a few boxes, his mother’s wood-carved dining table and a king-sized mattress, no big deal. He fought in a war, for God’s sake. He’d survived an explosion and lifted a burning car off his friend with these hands.

 _Yeah, and look what you got out of that._ Damen scowls down at the uncontrollable tremors and the dark braces strapped around his wrists, and curls his fingers into a weakly clenching fist.

Huffing a loud breath, Damen pushes himself to his feet to find his phone and shoots Nikandros a quick text, then tosses the device onto the couch. In the bare kitchen, he wrestles with the tape on one of the boxes for glasses and plates, then gives up with a bitten-off curse and drinks water straight from the tap instead. Cool liquid trickles its way down his chin and stains his shirt. He wipes his mouth dry with the back of his hand.

The doorbell goes, the quick, artificial chime cheerful through the house. Damen looks around, wiping his hands on his shirt. “That was quick,” he murmurs, jogging to the door. “I just sent you a text to remind you and Jord to get your asses over here, you fucker. How many speed limits did you break?” he jokes as he yanks the door open – only for the rest of his teasing to die with all available cognitive function.

Leaning against the banister fencing Damen’s tiny porch, wearing a pale blue shirt to complement his eyes, with his fingers tucked into the front pockets of his black slim-fit jeans and just as beautiful as the day they’d broken up, Laurent deVere raises an eyebrow at Damen. “Expecting someone else?”

“Laurent,” Damen blurts out, startled out of gaping. Laurent inclines his head minutely, a lock of gold escaping past the sunglasses resting atop his head. Damen’s cheeks start to flush as something like amusement crosses his ex’s face, but the rest of Damen can only boggle at him for a few moments. “Uh, wow. I wasn’t expecting… How did you know I was moving out? Did I text you by accident?” He’s pretty sure he sent the text to Nik, but he can’t help but glance back at his phone, still lying innocuously on the couch. He didn’t even know he still had Laurent’s _number_. ~~~~

Laurent shrugs, seeming to shove his hands deeper into his pockets. “I suppose you got lucky. Were you planning on moving everything out on your own?” His eyes flicker briefly over the hand Damen left on the door, lingering on the dark brace still adorning his wrist. Damen shifts so his hand is hidden behind the door, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“I. Yes? Nik and Jord were supposed to come over and help, but I think they got sidetracked.” Lifting his shoulder in a slight shrug, Damen runs a hand through his sweaty curls. “Honestly, I’m surprised they even remember to eat.”

Laurent’s lips twitch, gaze traveling past Damen down the box-littered hallway. “Mm. Are you going to invite me in?”

“Oh! Yeah, uh, come on in.” Damen has to force himself not to stare as Laurent takes a step over the threshold, looking around with a relaxed curiosity. “Sorry about the mess.”

“I suppose I could bear it with good reason.”

“Like moving out?” Damen says with a wry smile. The door clicks shut, and Damen turns around to meet Laurent’s eyes. He has to fight to not hold his breath as Laurent takes in every inch of retired, brow-beaten war veteran, down to the damned braces. He tries his best not to fidget under his ex’s inscrutable gaze, but Damen thinks he might have sighed a little bit in relief as soon as Laurent turns his gaze to the overflowing boxes surrounding them. “I, uh, wanted to get it done as soon as I could,” he offers to Laurent’s small frown.

Tucking his RayBans into the deep V of his shirt, Laurent kneels to fix the tape on one of the boxes that looks ready to burst. Damen rips his gaze away from Laurent’s newly exposed collarbones. “You’d be better off just stuffing everything into the truck without boxing them. It would have been much neater and a better use of your time.”

 _Ouch_. It is just like Laurent to flash a bit of skin and cut someone with his words at the same time. Damen is probably overthinking that first part.

Before he can respond, Laurent straightens up and looks around. “I’ll take out the heavier boxes first,” Laurent offers, testing the weight of one of the boxes. His brow crinkles, and he presses down on its bulging flaps to try and flatten it out. “Once I’ve laid the foundation you can put the lighter ones on top. Are you taking any of the furniture?”

“Just the dining table and my mattress.”

“Egeria’s table? I’m surprised you still have that.”

Damen grins. “I’ve made too many good memories at that table. That’s where I first beat you at Monopoly.”

Laurent glances at him. “What about the mattress?”

“That’s new, and I didn’t want to throw it out just yet. It’s got a few good years left in it.”

“No memories?”

Damen blinks. He’d forgotten what it was like to talk with Laurent – every word is a chess piece, poised to take the king. “Oh. Uh, no, not really.” They weren’t together anymore, but that didn’t mean that he’s going to tell Laurent that the mattress is where he’d fucked Isander and Jokaste. “Can I… I don’t know, help you?” he says, feeling faintly useless as Laurent effortlessly stacks his few boxes closer to the doorway.

“You can get the door.”

Obediently, Damen gets the door as Laurent starts marching the boxes out. _Great. Now I’m just_ _a glorified door wedge._

“Don’t belittle yourself; you’re more than adequate as a door wedge. I might even hire your services for the future.”

Damen groans, dropping his head against the side of the door with an audible _thud_. “Did I say that aloud?”

Laurent offers him a half-smile as he passes with another box. “Do you have any more?”

“If you’ve gotten the two in the kitchen, there should be just one in my bedroom, but that’s it. The one in my room is light enough, it’s just clothes. I can grab that once my door-stopping duties have been fulfilled.”

“Stay here, I’ll get it.” Laurent re-enters the house and jogs upstairs. Damen leans against the door, humming absently as his gaze travels his soon-to-be former home. Even though most of the furniture remains, the house felt a lot emptier without his stuff filling the corners – this house had meant so much to him when he’d first gotten it. It’s hard to believe that he’s moving out now, five years later, when he’d been so sure he’d start his first family here. He thought he’d had with Jokaste what he’d lacked with Isander – that they’d get married once Damen finished his third tour, settle down, have those two and a half kids.

He should have known that things don’t typically work out the way he wants. Jokaste is too smart to settle down, and he can barely move a box around his own house. _Some dad I’d be._

“Are you in the master?” Laurent calls down. He sticks his head over the banister. “Is there anything you need from your bathroom?”

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Damen squints up at him. “Yes, I am, and er, no, it should all be packed?”

Laurent nods and disappears from the railing again. Damen shifts restlessly when Laurent doesn’t immediately head downstairs with the box of his things, then lets the door swing shut. Taking the stairs two at a time, Damen calls, “Laurent?”

He steps into his bedroom to see Laurent kneeling on the floor, surrounded by loose sheets of paper and studying one sheet in particular. He had that little crease in his forehead that said he was thinking hard about something.

“What are you looking at?”

Laurent starts – a tiny, aborted twitch of his hand – and looks up at Damen, blinking. “I didn’t know you kept these,” he says, sounding slightly dazed. Damen peers at the sheet of paper and recognizes the pictures his mother had taken for his senior prom, with Laurent as his date. He had his arms around Laurent’s waist in that one, Laurent’s arms wound around his neck, their foreheads pressed together and oblivious to Damen’s mother sneaking pictures of her baby boy and his boyfriend. Laurent’s smile was radiant on the picture and in his memory.

God, they were so happy.

“Where did you find them?”

Laurent gestures at the box of his things. “They slipped out when I lifted it. You should really invest in some better containers, or tape your things up better.”

Damen crouches next to him and picks up another of the pictures from the floor. He was pinning the deep blue boutonniere to Laurent’s lapel in that one; Laurent’s cheeks were flushed a deep pink. His lips twitch fondly at the memory. “I remember this. I kept thinking the blue matched your eyes.”

Laurent peers over his shoulder, and something in his face softens at the picture. “You could barely keep still long enough for me to pin mine on you.”

“Hey, I was graduating in less than a week, surrounded by my friends and family, and I had the love of my life in my arms. That night was one of the highlights of my life. Cut me some slack, I was excited.”

Laurent scoffs, shaking his head. “Sentimental animal,” he murmurs fondly.

Damen puts the picture down and picks another one off the floor, then immediately snickers. “At least I didn’t pull a Nik and just gape at you open-mouthed in all our pictures.” He flips around the picture of Nikandros and Jord pinning boutonnieres on each other for Laurent to see. Laurent looks, and starts to laugh.

“You _were_ thankfully in control of your face.”

“Do you still remember how you got Nik to stop?” Damen looks at the picture again, chuckling quietly at the memory of Laurent dropping a spider in Nik’s hair. It had been slightly cruel, but Laurent _had_ offhandedly offered to flick a couple of bugs into his mouth if Nikandros didn’t shut it. Consider the man warned. Besides, the high-pitched squeal that had escaped his friend had been worth the dagger eyes for the entire limo ride to the school.

Laurent flashes him a wicked little grin. “I never forget.”

Damen meets his gaze with a warm smile, feeling the memories linger between them. They’d had such a perfect night, and Damen had later worshipped every inch of Laurent’s body. His eyes trail down Laurent’s frame now, lingering on the exposed collarbone and the curve of his neck. He still looks as gorgeous as he had that night, and every other night; Damen finds himself swaying a little closer, eyes shifting down further up to focus on Laurent’s lips. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet his own.

Laurent clears his throat and shifts away, and Damen shoots backwards, gracelessly falling on his ass. He expects a laugh, or a snide comment on his balance, but Laurent isn’t looking at him anymore; rubbing his face with his forearms, Damen takes a deep breath and says, “Uh, I can take the box. I don’t think it’s that heavy.”

“No need.” Laurent deftly gathers the pictures and slides them back into the box, then scoops the cardboard into his arms. “Get the door?”

“Yeah, sure.” Relieved to have something to do with his hands now that Laurent has quite steadfastly rejected him, Damen scrambles to his feet and holds first the bedroom door open, then jogs downstairs to get the main door. Laurent steps by him carefully, and slides the box atop the others in the truck.

As he heads back to the house, Laurent wipes his hands against his jeans and shakes a stray lock of blond hair from his face. “Table first?” he suggests.

“Sure.” Damen follows Laurent back to the dining area and, propping his butt against the back of his couch, watches as he circles the table critically – probably trying to figure out how to take it out with minimal damage to the floor. “Laurent?”

“Hm?”

Damen takes a deep breath. “I just want to thank you, you know, for helping. I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle all of this on my own, and I’m glad you showed up, even if it wasn’t expressly to help me.” He offers Laurent a grin. “But seriously, I owe you dinner. Thank you.”

Laurent has a half-smile on his face. “I’ll collect.”

“I expect you to,” Damen says, gaze dropping to the table. “How do you suggest we go about this?”

“Do you want the chairs with this?”

“Nah, Kastor has the originals. We divvied. I’ll just get a new set; it’d save us the trip.”

“You’ll be severely lacking in seats, especially if you’re leaving your couch behind.”

Damen shrugs, running a hand over the thick wool covering. “I haven’t had the best memories of this couch,” he admits. He’d long forgiven Jokaste, but the image of his brother fucking his girlfriend into his own goddamn couch was forever burned into his brain. It might have helped if Kastor had thought to beg forgiveness as well. Then again, it might not. “Besides, my new place came partially furnished. They offered to leave behind most of their living room if I paid the deposit upfront.”

“They must have been desperate to sell that house,” Laurent muses as he hefts the table. “Did they leave you a bed frame, too?”

“No, but I can live sleeping on the floor a couple of days until I get a new one. It’s not the worst thing I’ve spent nights on.” Damen watches Laurent struggle to drag the heavy table without scratching the floor with little success. “Let me help.”

Laurent huffs, rolling his shoulders back and eyeing him. “Are you going to hurt yourself doing that?”

“I’m going crazy following you around, if I don’t do something to help you I’m going to beat my head against the door until we’re ready to go.”

Laurent shakes his head, lips twitching. “Alright, you giant Neanderthal. Take the other side.”

Smiling widely at what is practically an endearment out of Laurent, Damen braces his forearms under the table. On Laurent’s count of three, he heaves, trying not to put more pressure than absolutely necessary on his hands and wrists. “Okay,” he gasps, and they inch their way out the door.

Once the table is safely stowed in the back of the truck, Damen presses his now-uncontrollably shaking hands into his thighs, taking a shaky inhale and trying to will the sharp spikes of pain away. Laurent stands nearby, an expression of faint concern crossing his face.

“I’m alright,” he says, waving away Laurent’s cautious hand. “It just, uh. When I carry things. I can’t really– It sucks,” Damen mutters, all excuses dropping away as he hangs his head over his knees in shame.

Laurent shifts from foot to foot for a moment, then says, “I’ll get the mattress out for you.”

“I can–” Damen starts, then falls silent when Laurent fixes him with a hard look.

“ _Stay._ Here.”

Dropping against the side of the truck, Damen watches Laurent slip back into the house. Five minutes later, he’s hefting the mattress across the lawn to the truck. A bead of sweat rolls down Laurent’s temple and past his jaw, lingering on the side of his neck. Damen presses his hands into his knees and sucks in a breath, snatching his eyes away. Laurent’s too busy stuffing the mattress into the truck to notice Damen’s eyes sneaking glances at the pale skin of his neck and collar. Damen exhales slowly, rolling his eyes to the heavens. _Jesus, I need to get laid._

“Do you need help driving the truck to your new place?” Laurent runs a hand through those blond strands, and Damen finds his eyes following the motion before Laurent’s words begin to make any sense in his head.

“Ah, I should be able to manage.”

“I’ll follow you in my car, then.”

Damen blinks. “You don’t have to, I–”

Laurent raises an eyebrow at him. “Are Nikandros and Jord going to meet you at your new place?”

“Um, I don’t think so, no.”

Laurent nods like that settles the matter, then tosses Damen the truck’s keys. “Let me get my things from inside,” he says, and jogs back into the house.

Damen rubs his forehead tiredly and gets to his feet. When Laurent steps back out, he says, “You really don’t have to, you know. You helped me enough today.”

“You can barely carry half of a table without hurting yourself. Do you really think I’m going to leave you to carry all of _that_ into your new place?”

“Uh–”

“The answer is no, Damianos,” Laurent says with a sigh. “Get in the truck.”

Grumbling quietly under his breath, Damen drags himself into the driver’s seat of the truck and looks back at the house one last time. He’s going to have to come back sometime to hand the keys to the agent, but this house has been _his_ for so long that the parting tastes bittersweet. He’d kissed the floors that first time coming home to Jokaste. Kissed her all over, so goddamn happy that he’d been delirious with it, letting her laughter sink into his bones. Had loved and lost her in that house.

Lost a brother, too.

Damen starts the truck and eases it into motion, feeling suddenly heavy.

 

It takes him a while to shift his thoughts back to the move. His new place, despite being listed as secluded and surrounded by nature, is a little closer to the city and only a twenty-minute drive south from his old home and a quick commute to his father’s. He’d also be closer to the workings of Akielos, though he’d thankfully begged off from throwing himself fully into the business for now. His father had been… shockingly understanding.

Damen pulls into the long driveway thirty-five minutes later. Having gone five below the speed limit to avoid risking a run-in with the law or the polish on his mother’s table, the drive had taken a little longer than he anticipated. As he switches off the engine, Laurent’s sleek BMW pulls in behind him.

“You drive like an old man,” Laurent informs him the moment Damen hops out of the truck, shading his eyes from the harsh sun.

“Ah, but I don’t fuck like one.” Damen watches with a wide grin as Laurent turns a little pink. He wordlessly heads to the back of the truck and yanks the latch open with a squeal of metal. Chuckling quietly, Damen follows him and props his knee against the lowered step. Laurent appears from the depths of the truck and dumps the box of bedroom paraphernalia into his arms.

“You can carry this in.”

Damen starts laughing a little bit harder.

With his nose in the air, Laurent scoops up two of the boxes and starts for the house, shoes crunching against gravel. Still trying and failing to stifle his mirth, Damen has to gather himself before he can make the trip, and by the time he’s reached the front door, Laurent has dumped the boxes on the porch and is halfway back to the truck.

Dropping his box on one of Laurent’s, Damen jogs back to the truck. Laurent has moved the table to the side and stacked a few boxes by the opening. He hops off the edge, picks up one of the larger boxes and nods at a pile sitting just under the table. “Those are light enough; you should be able to get them in.”

“’Kay.” Damen scoops up one of the boxes and props a smaller one on top of it before trailing after Laurent, peering around his cargo.

With the two of them pulling weight, they make quick work of the boxes and end up staring at his mother’s table – Laurent with a thoughtful expression and Damen balefully.

“I might be able to drag it in, but the legs will get scuffed.”

Damen scowls at the table, then straightens his shoulders. “I can carry–” he starts to say only to have Laurent cut him off.

“Don’t be an idiot. Your worth isn’t only in your strength, Damianos.” Switching his gaze to Laurent, Damen has no time to respond before he says, “I can call Jord and make sure they come by tomorrow to help you out, if you don’t mind leaving this in the truck for another day.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Good. I’ll take the mattress in. Go unlock the front door.”

Damen dutifully trots back to the door, patting his pockets for the new keys. The air inside is a little stale, but nothing throwing open his windows won’t fix. Damen steps into his new home, gazing down the dimly lit entrance hallway and past the stairs to the joint living-dining space and large-paneled windows beyond. Through the trees, the sky streaks orange and periwinkle on the still lake; the evening sun leaves geometric shapes across the living room floor and the off-white walls through the skylights.  

He lives here, now.

“Where do you want the mattress?”

Laurent’s voice startles him out of his reverie, and Damen turns to see him maneuvering the mattress into the house. “Uh, just anywhere for now. I can bring it up later.”

“Upstairs, then?” Without waiting for a response, Laurent sweeps by and heads up for the two bedrooms in the loft above them. Damen rubs his forehead with a sigh, then heads back outside to gather some of the boxes.

When Laurent returns, he’s struggling to shove one of the heavier ones across the floor with his foot and balance two of the lighter boxes at the same time. Wordlessly, Laurent plucks the heavy one from the ground and takes a peek inside, then heads into the kitchen to drop his cargo off at its intended destination. Damen, huffing quietly in exasperation, drops his boxes off in the living area before going for round two.

Laurent slips in and out of the house for his things, refusing to let Damen try carrying any of the heavier boxes despite his protests. “ _My_ hands are perfectly functional,” he tells Damen pointedly when Damen tries to reason with him. “Move aside, Damen.”

Dumbfounded, Damen can only watch as Laurent moves back and forth between the door and the house, hefting Damen’s things with an ease that he envies. After a while, his mind drifts back to the house, thinking over the things he’d need to get over the next few days or so. A bed is probably in order, and definitely dining chairs. He might be able to make do without a work desk for the moment; it’s not like he’s jumping right into the thick of Akielos Enterprises, and the couch is a perfectly acceptable place to check his email.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Laurent says, eventually, with a slight drawl. Damen looks over. There were no more boxes by the doorway, and Laurent has propped his hip against the stairs to join Damen in his silent contemplation. His gaze sweeps over the open space, and the only sign of his exertion is in the heavier rise and fall of his chest. “But I don’t think you have enough stuff to fill this space.”

Damen shrugs out of his sweaty shirt and slumps back against the wall. He sees Laurent eye him with a look of slight distaste – probably because he’s sticky from the heat and is currently leaning against an unsullied wall. How Laurent manages to look so put together in this humidity is beyond him. “I was just thinking that I’m going to have to start furniture shopping soon,” he admits, wrinkling his own nose at the idea. Even if he didn’t need most of the things on his list, his friends would appreciate having the space to mingle about when they came over. “At least the kitchen is fully functional.”

“Luxurious. Do you have any plans for the place?”

“Uh, I guess some new paint in a couple of places upstairs, and redo some of the loose boards in the spare bedroom – the agent said a couple of the boards up there keep popping up if you step wrong. I thought I might try building a shed for the garden, too, and maybe start a vegetable plot. I don’t really know yet,” Damen admits, pushing damp curls out of his eyes. “Might be nice if I could set up a bonfire outside, you know, to have parties with friends. It’s not summer without barbeques and a s’more pit, and I’ve got the house for it now. Other than that? I haven’t really thought about it. I like the layout and there’s nothing I want to do demo work on.”

Laurent steps over to the fireplace and runs the fingers of his right hand over the carved stone, the other wrapped loosely around his midsection. “It is very you,” he says after a long moment, gazing up at the loft hiding the two bedrooms. “Almost the house you imagined when we were younger. Though I often assumed that you’d have more walls.”

Damen blinks. “Thank you.” With a faint smile, he looks around at his new place. “I like it too. I guess the thought of being… trapped, I suppose, didn’t really appeal once I woke up,” he says honestly. Laurent looks at him thoughtfully, saying nothing. He shrugs, embarrassed. “From the hospital,” he elaborates, and closes his eyes. “I had… pins. In my hands. They were sticking out like some kind of– It was very traumatic,” he cuts himself off, fitting a brief smile on his lips to lighten to mood. Laurent had a way of drawing out Damen’s innermost thoughts, but nobody really wants to hear about the part when he found out.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent says, his voice surprisingly soft. Damen shrugs again.

“It wasn’t your fault. I knew what I was getting into, joining the army. Dad might’ve pushed me a little into it, but I’d always wanted to.” He looks down at his hands, scarred and useless. He closes them into two careful fists.

“I know.”

It was the second admission of their shared past, and Damen looks up at him curiously. He must have had _some_ other expression on his face, too, because – with deliberate movements – Laurent crosses the space between them and holds out his hand, palm-up and steady. “May I?”

Damen considers, thinks, _This is a bad idea._

He rests his hand on Laurent’s. Cool, careful fingers curl around his shaking ones, stilling them. Calming.

Laurent looks down at their joined hands, and carefully brushes a thumb over one of the knotted scars still too bright against his darker skin. Absently, he says, “I always loved your hands. They were always so warm and str…” He trails off. “Whenever you touched me. Like you could put me back together if I’d ever broke myself somehow.” Damen stares. “They were… one of my favorite things about you.” Laurent rubs his fingers gently between his own, then lets him go with a step away. Damen’s hand drops heavily against his thigh. Laurent doesn’t look up at him, but there’s a… blankness to his expression that makes Damen cringe.

“I didn’t know.”

“No, of course not.” Laurent scoffs slightly, snapping the taut air between them. He takes another step back, and there’s a smirk on his lips now. “Unobservant brute. I believe I was promised dinner?”

“Hey,” Damen protests with a weak smile. He shakes off the desire to close the space to Laurent and straightens up. “Yeah, of course. I don’t really have the energy to make something, but – what about we freshen up and I order takeout? Thai sound good to you?” He looks around for the box of the things that once lived on his fridge. He’s pretty sure his usual takeout place will deliver to this address, but barring that, he _could_ just google a new one.

“Thai is fine.” Laurent stretches languidly and studies himself with a frown. “I don’t have any clothes.”

Damen glances back at him, then changes direction to peek through one of the boxes by the couch. “I’d offer you some of Jokaste’s things, but you’re not really her size. I might have a couple of Nik’s shirts in here, and some sweatpants of mine – but if you want to head back to your place to get some new clothes, you’ll probably be a lot more comfortable and I’ll spend less time digging up stuff.”

Laurent nods and pushes himself to his feet. “God forbid you turn your new house into a mess within the first hour,” he says without any heat. Damen winces anyway, looking guiltily at his own haphazardly placed boxes around the living room in comparison to the neat piles Laurent made in each location. “I’ll be back in about an hour with some drinks. I want—”

“Pad thai, no peanuts, mild and with egg strips? Consider it done.” If Laurent is surprised that Damen still remembers his order, he doesn’t show it. He offers a weak smile when Laurent nods again.

“See you later, then.”

“Wait,” Damen blurts out. Laurent pauses and looks at him curiously. “Do you need- I guess, my number? Just, you know, in case you get lost.” He feels his cheeks heating up slightly under Laurent’s scrutinizing gaze.

Eventually, he shrugs. “Sure.” Sliding his phone from his pocket, Laurent hands it over to Damen, who types his number in with shaking fingers and sends himself a text. When he hands it back, their fingers brush.

God, it feels like his face is on fire.

Laurent doesn’t acknowledge their contact – he simply pulls his car keys from his jeans, and with a casual wave is gone.

Damen drops his head hard against the wall with a low groan. _You’re an idiot._

 

He’s a little embarrassed at how he rushes through his shower, and spends too much time in front of the bathroom mirror messing with his hair and later trying to decide between the tighter black shirt or the casual red one, as though Laurent is returning for a date and not a casual expression of gratitude on his part. Damen goes with the red, eventually, with a stern self-reminder that Laurent is _not_ here for a date and he really shouldn’t be trying to get back with one of his exes. _Be grateful that he’s here at all_.

Throwing on a pair of running shorts, he dials in the orders for that Thai place – which, incidentally, does deliver to his neighborhood – before checking the series of increasingly panicked messages from Nikandros he’d gotten while he was in the shower.

[7:02PM] Were outside

[7:04PM] Where the hell are u? Wheres the truck?

[7:10PM] Damen shit did u die

[7:11PM] Im sry were late where are u??

Chuckling to himself, Damen starts typing a response, only to be interrupted by Nik calling him. He swipes the answer button and holds the phone to his ear to the sound of Nikandros shouting somewhere in the background of the call: “ _You fucking idiot, did you move out by_ yourself _?_ ”

“Hi Damen, sorry we were late,” Jord says, sounding a little like he’s tussling with Nikandros. Still in the background, Nik goes, _“Will you give me the goddamn phone so I can scream at him for being a brainless asshole?”_ Jord continues over his boyfriend, “Nik’s a little worried.” Then, more muffled, “Stop trying to pinch me, Nik, don’t be a child.”

_“I just want to yell at him a little, I promise I’ll give it back!”_

Laughing, Damen leans against his bedroom wall, listening to their scuffle. Eventually, he says, “Tell Nik not to worry, I didn’t move out on my own.”

“Oh! Great, did Pallas come over? I thought he was at the game. Nik, stop that, he says he didn’t move out on his own.”

 _“Well, tell him he drives me to drink_.”

“Put me on speaker,” Damen suggests.

“Alright, one sec. Get _off_. He’s going on speaker… Damen?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“You’re an ass,” Nikandros says promptly. “You should’ve texted to tell us that Pallas was helping you out.”

His lip twitches up. “Love you too, Nik,” Damen says fondly. “Sorry I didn’t text; I didn’t really think about it. It wasn’t Pallas, though.”

“Oh?” Jord says, curious. “Who came over? Your brother?”

Grimacing at the thought, Damen shakes his head before remembering that they can’t see him. “Uh, no. God, no. Do you remember Laurent? Auguste’s brother?”

“The one that went on a serious bender after you broke up with him? Ow, fuck, Jord.”

“Hey,” Damen protests a little guiltily. “That was not because of me.”

Jord says, “Don’t be cruel. Laurent was going through a hard time.”

“Right, forgot you still talk to him. Sorry, babe.” There’s a low murmur for a moment, a sound like a kiss that Damen wrinkles his nose at, then Nikandros sounds a little clearer. “Took you off speaker, Jord’s gone to wait in the car. What about L- oh. _Oh._ Damen, you didn’t.”

“He just showed up out of nowhere and offered to help me out,” Damen says. “I couldn’t really get most of the stuff down on my own.”

“Is he still a spoiled jackass?”

“Nik,” Damen says. “Come on, now.”

“Yeah, I know. He was mostly nice to you. Not fair, though, his brother was such a cool dude and you ended up falling for the stuck up, difficult one. It’s like you have a type.”

Blowing a breath out, Damen tips his head back. “I liked him,” he says simply. “He made things better. Hey, did Jord get Laurent’s text? I think he was going to ask you guys to come and help me move the table in tomorrow, if that’s alright?”

“Sure. We’ll come over in the morning. Jord will make blueberry scones.”

Damen smiles, nostalgic for the days when he lived with Nik, and Jord would cook up a massive breakfast on Sunday mornings. “Tell Jord I’ve missed those, but don’t twist his arm too hard. Hey, I’ve got to get ready. I invited Laurent back for dinner to thank him for his help.”

Nikandros groans. “ _Damen_. What did I say about dating people who can fuck with–”

“I’m not going to do anything,” Damen assures him hastily. “It’s not a date. It’s just a thanks for your help type deal. Listen, once I’ve unpacked everything I’ll invite the guys over for dinner and drinks. Maybe see if we can get a grill going.”

Nik sighs. “Sure. Jord and I will bring the alcohol. I’ll get stuff for your break-up cocktail.”

“ _Not_ a date, Nik _._ See you tomorrow?”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Nik says, and hangs up. Chuckling to himself, Damen tosses the phone on the bare mattress and heads downstairs.

He’s in the midst of wiping up the water trail he’d left from running downstairs to grab a towel when the doorbell rings. Chucking the towel at his boxes with a mental note to toss that in with the washing, Damen jogs over to the door. “That wasn’t an hour,” he greets Laurent, freshly showered in a gray V-neck and dark jeans, holding a bottle of wine. “What’s this?”

“A house-warming gift.”

“You really didn’t have to,” Damen says, oddly touched by the gesture. He steps aside to let Laurent in, and closes the door behind him. “I thought you didn’t drink?”

Laurent shrugs. “Some occasions call for alcohol. Do you have any wine glasses?”

“And moving into a new place is one of them?” Damen jokes, then nods towards the kitchen. “I probably have a set in one of the boxes, but just use anything you find first. The wine won’t care.” He watches Laurent place the bottle on an empty counter before ripping tape off one of the boxes. Damen is reaching out to help when the doorbell rings again.

Laurent looks up, and Damen waves him back. “That’s probably the food, I’ll get it,” he says over his shoulder, heading back to the door.

“I’ll pick out plates if I find any.”

Two minutes later, with the delivery guy tipped and the food safely in his hands, Damen moves back into the kitchen. Laurent has set two plates out and popped the cork out of the wine bottle, pouring the drinks into the mugs he managed to dig out of a box. “I don’t envy your unpacking,” he says when Damen enters.

“Where did you find the corkscrew?”

“In the box for your shoes. You should really have thought that through.”

“You’re probably right.” Damen sets the food on the counter and carefully dishes out their orders onto the plates. “We can eat on the couch, unless you’d much rather stand around?” he says, already thinking about how he would eat on his feet. He might be able to eat off the counter; holding up a plate for too long could get a bit messy with his hands.

“The couch sounds nice.”

Nodding, Damen leads the way around the breakfast bar into the living area, settling deeply into the new couch with a sigh. He digs into his food eagerly, just now realizing that in the excitement of moving, he hasn’t had the chance to actually eat something all day. “Mmph,” he moans around the flavorful burst of curry in his mouth.

“That good?” Laurent says lightly next to him. Damen swallows his bite and grins at him. He’s got a bite of noodles held expertly in his chopsticks, a look of relaxed amusement on his face.

“Best curry ever. Do you want some?”

Laurent eyes his plate. “Do you still have it with extra spice?”

“Oh yeah.”

Laurent wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “I’ll pass, but thank you.”

Damen grins. “Still can’t handle the heat?”

“I prefer to have my taste buds fully functional.”

Shrugging, Damen takes another bite of his curry, and his eyelids flutter shut as the flavors spill over his tongue. “Fuck, this is so good.”

“You act as though you haven’t eaten in weeks,” Laurent says mildly, taking a sip of his wine. He places the mug down. “What made you choose this place?”

Damen pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “Oh. Um, well, the open concept was a huge thing for me. I, er… I got out the hospital last month, went home and realized how claustrophobic my old place was. Nik suggested I get a new house – and I mean, dad was saying I needed to be closer to the city anyway, for when I take over. So I got this one.” He looks around at the open space. “Makes me feel less like I’m stuck somewhere below ground,” he says honestly, then immediately regrets turning the conversation down that path. “What about you, what are you doing back here? Last I heard you were terrorizing Europe.”

“Terrorizing?” Laurent snorts.

Damen shrugs. “You’re beautiful, a social celebrity, and you have a lot of fans. You can’t tell me you didn’t do anything with them.”

Laurent turns his gaze on him, expression unreadable. “I didn’t.”

“Really?”

“I’m not desperate enough that I need to soil myself with filth.”

“Ouch,” Damen says lightly, but with an irrepressible wince. It’s been almost ten years, but even Damen has trouble believing that Laurent hasn’t dated anyone since… well, _him_. _Besides, I wanted to kiss him, and he moved away._

Laurent seems to give himself a little shake, then says, “I came back for the funeral.”

Oh, right. “Oh.”

“I never… thanked you. For the flowers.”

Damen smiles, then. “Blue irises. Vivianne and your brother always had a fresh bouquet on the table.”

Laurent says nothing, and for a while they eat in silence. When their plates are empty, Laurent stands, gathering the dishes, and silently heads into the kitchen. Damen scrambles a little bit to follow.

“You can leave those in the sink, I’ll get them later.”

“If you’re sure,” Laurent says.

“I’m sure.” Damen studies his face. “Are you…” _Okay_ dies on his lips. He really doesn’t look it. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes.” Laurent spins on his heel and picks his keys up from the counter. Damen trails after him awkwardly to the door, trying not to stare at the high set of Laurent’s shoulders. When Laurent turns to face him at the entrance, Damen offers him the warmest smile he can muster.

“Thank you for helping, and for the wine.”

Laurent nods, frowning at him.

Damen shifts from foot to foot. “I’m probably going to have a housewarming party sometime, um. Can I invite you for that? Jord and Nik will be there.” So will Jokaste, actually, but he can’t exactly take his offer back now. Somehow, he doesn’t think that putting Laurent and Jokaste within a hundred feet of each other will end well – either between them, or for the rest of the world. Something might just explode.

“Sure.”

“Cool, I’ll text you.”

They fall silent. Laurent is still frowning at him. He’s a step closer than he was before, and Damen tries his best not to feel like he’s about to be cornered.

“Is something–” Damen starts, then stops short when Laurent cups his face in two hands. There’s a look of hard determination in his eyes when he leans in to press a soft, sweetly hesitant kiss on Damen’s lips. Damen stares, holding his breath.

Laurent kisses him again, and this time he winds his fingers into Damen’s hair, blue eyes falling shut. Damen moves, pulling Laurent in closer as his arms find their way around Laurent’s waist; his thumb brushes over a bare patch of skin on Laurent’s back. Laurent tips his head back, lips parting, and Damen sucks gently on his lower lip, trying not to smile at the soft sound of pleasure.

Laurent’s lips taste like red wine.

When Laurent nudges him back to breathe, Damen kisses his way across his jaw and down to the joint between Laurent’s shoulder and neck, lavishing a little attention on the pinked skin. Laurent stills, as though apprehensive. Damen pulls back a little, kissing beneath his ear instead. “May I?” Damen breathes, and feels Laurent tremble, his hands curling tighter into his hair.

“Yes,” he says after a moment, and Damen smiles.

“Okay.” He kisses his way back to the spot and teases Laurent with little nips of his teeth, if only to hear the stutter in Laurent’s breath, before sucking on his skin. When he pulls back to look, Laurent is gazing down at him with something like amusement on his features.

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” Damen murmurs, tongue flicking out across the red mark on Laurent’s pale skin.

A soft laugh escapes Laurent. “I know.” He turns his head and brushes a kiss over Damen’s cheek. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Damen stifles a grin and gently nips the reddened mark again before straightening. “Hey. I’m plenty subtle. Remember when you asked me not to tell your brother that we were dating yet?” Laurent goes still in his arms, and too late Damen realizes that he shouldn’t have brought Auguste up. He barrels on in an attempt to salvage the conversation. “I was so subtle. The _subtlest_. I was practically a secret agent. I was _secret agent subtle_. You can’t deny me that.”

Laurent stirs. “Auguste found out that we were dating the day you asked me out, Secret Agent Subtle. I told him,” he says mildly. When he looks up, there’s a wry smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I told you to keep it a secret because I thought it would be funny to watch you stumble around us both.”

Damen pulls back and stares at him. “I didn’t know that.”

“I know.” Laurent’s smiling still.

“Was it?”

“Funny? Yes, very.”

Damen groans and drops his head back on Laurent’s shoulder. “You’re kidding.”

“Not in the slightest.”

“So I could have had my hands on you _all that time_.”

“Mm.”

“I’m glad I amuse you.”

“Yes,” Laurent says, amused. “You do have very little substance beyond your giant animal impersonation.” The words have no bite and were softened by a gentle hand carding through his hair, so Damen huffs a laugh and shakes his head in disbelief at his younger self’s gullibility.

“I don’t fucking believe it,” he says, fondness infusing his words.

“Do. It happened.” Before Damen can respond, Laurent starts to extricate himself from their embrace, and Damen reluctantly lets him go. He follows Laurent to the door.

“Can I see you again?”

“Perhaps.” Laurent looks up at him, blue eyes cool and serious. “I leave town this Friday.”

Damen starts. “What, _forever_?”

“No.” Laurent’s smiling again. “Just a few days.”

“Oh.” Damen exhales slowly. “Okay, good.” He realizes that he must be staring at Laurent when his gaze flick down to the other man’s lips. Before he can do anything to force himself not to, Laurent reaches out and touches his cheek lightly with his fingers.

“I’ll call you when I get back,” Laurent promises.

Damen’s hand catches his, and he can’t resist pressing a kiss to Laurent’s palm – if only to see his cheeks turn pink the way they do. “Okay,” he says against his skin, never looking away.

“It was… good to see you, Damen. But I really have to leave.” Laurent tugs his hand free gently and pulls the door open. Damen catches it before Laurent can really leave.

“A few days?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t promise I won’t text you.”

“I wouldn’t hold you to that.”

“I’ll see you soon?” Damen persists.

Laurent just smiles and takes the step out the door. “Goodbye, Damen.” There’s laughter in his voice and eyes when the door swings shut between them. Damen is left grinning at the door long after he hears Laurent’s car start and leave.

Then he lets out a whoop, and jogs back to find his phone.

Nikandros is going to yell at him.

 

“Where have you been?”

“Hello to you too, Uncle,” Laurent responds, tossing his jacket across the counter by the door and suppressing a sigh. His uncle is seated on one of the barstools, clearly waiting for Laurent to come through. “Did you have a nice night?”

“I’ve only been wondering if my sweet nephew had gotten himself horribly injured,” his uncle says mildly. His eyes linger on the curve of Laurent’s neck, and he raises an eyebrow. “Though I see now that you’ve merely been… dallying.”

Laurent stiffens slightly, resisting the urge to cover Damen’s hickey with his hand. When it happened, it felt like a necessary evil to get on his uncle’s nerves, but under the weight of Uncle’s stare, he feels like a teenager taking petty, useless revenge once again. “Fortunately for you, you haven’t lost my services to the bumbling attempts of a common thief.”

“Where have you been, Laurent?”

Laurent pulls out the corkscrew from his pocket and tosses it at his uncle. “Helping an old friend move in.” Uncle picks it up lazily, eyes sliding over the inscription: _Happy 21 st Damen!_ There’s nothing to read on his face, but Laurent recognizes annoyance in the curl of his hand around the screw. He takes pleasure in the little victories.

“What’s this?”

He leans back against the counter, facing his uncle with his arms folded across his chest, feigning indifference. “You wanted me to find some way to ensure no one suspects that I’m your perfect little killer. I have.”

His uncle studies him for a long moment, then sighs heavily and pushes himself to his feet. Laurent resists the urge to move away when his uncle crosses over and places a cold hand on his cheek. Laurent’s jaw tenses, and he sees amusement flash in his uncle’s eyes.

“Akielos Enterprises, Laurent? Your brother would never approve of how you have sullied the family name.”

Laurent jerks his face away from his uncle, only to have his chin caught and turned forcibly. His neck feels exposed and filthy with his uncle’s thoughtful gaze on it. Through gritted teeth and unable to abstain from mockery, he says, “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find a way to use this to your advantage. You live for your people, after all, don’t you, Uncle? Or is that only little boys?”

Uncle’s eyes flash up, and there’s a terrible little twist to his lips. “The file is in your room. Do check in on Nicaise when you go up, will you? I’m sure he’ll miss you… _terribly_ … when you leave this weekend. Poor boy gets so lonely without you. Perhaps I should stay and keep him company.”

He’s grinding his teeth so hard that he’s almost surprised nothing is breaking yet, but he forces himself not to respond. His uncle may well make good on the threat if Laurent opposes him too openly, and no matter how much he wants to, Nicaise’s safety is not worth that risk. _This is what I’m here for_ , he reminds himself, then, _Don’t breathe._

Uncle runs his thumb over Laurent’s lips slowly, lips curving more at the way Laurent goes still, eyes shuttering as his mind tries to place him back in Europe and rebuild the distance he once had from this hell.

The next thing he knows, he’s standing alone in the kitchen and Uncle is nowhere to be seen. Body shuddering uncontrollably, he lurches over to the sink and retches.

When his stomach is empty and his throat aching, Laurent runs the tap to wash away the evidence of his discomfort before rinsing his mouth. As he heads upstairs into his bedroom, he thinks about ignoring the file laid deliberately upon his sheets, but self-preservation and a protective instinct for Nicaise forces him to pick it up and start flipping through it.

Someone knocks on his door lightly, and Nicaise sticks his head in. “Can I sleep here tonight?” he asks quietly. Without taking his eyes off the page he’s reading about his target’s history, Laurent reaches out and flips down the other corner of his sheets. Nicaise closes the door behind him with a click, then crawls in next to Laurent, waiting patiently. Laurent finishes the page he’s on, then closes the folder and appraises Nicaise silently. His nephew says nothing, jaw tense and cheeks pale. He would never admit it, but Laurent always knows when he’s scared. He’s seen the expression often enough in the mirror.

“How long are you going to be away?” Nicaise asks eventually.

“Two nights, if it goes well. I’ll be back on Sunday evening,” Laurent says softly. He combs his fingers through Nicaise’s hair, and his nephew sighs heavily. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Laurent shifts to stare at him, gaze hard. “ _Anything_ , Nicaise.”

Nicaise scowls at him, then grips his hand. “I know, Laurent. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ll stay out of his way.”

Laurent exhales slowly, then starts to flip the file open again. His phone buzzes on the bedside table, and Nicaise gets it first. Laurent lets him, studying the woman’s picture on the file. He used to wonder how these people had gotten on his uncle’s radar, but it’s easier now to just do his job.

“Uh, Laurent? Who’s Damianos?” Laurent reaches out and plucks his phone from Nicaise’s hands. “Hey!”

Ignoring him, Laurent looks down at Damen’s texts.

[9:52PM] So, Nik says I can only invite u to the bbq if u promise not to put spiders on anyone.

[9:53PM] I would very much like u to come to the bbq but he wants it in black & white

[9:53PM] :)

[ _I’ll consider it._ ]

[9:55PM] He says yes or nothing.

“Is he your _boyfriend_?”

“No. He’s an old friend,” Laurent responds sharply, then types, _Alright, no spiders. I concede nothing else._

His phone buzzes again.

[9:58PM] :D

“Are you _smiling_? Who _is_ this guy?” Nicaise says, eyeing Laurent suspiciously. He reaches up to press a hand against Laurent’s forehead. “You never act like this. Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?”

Laurent rolls his eyes, an unfortunate habit he picked up from his nephew, and shoves his hand away. “Go to sleep, Nicaise. You have school tomorrow.”

“Ugh. Fine, be that way. I’ll figure it out eventually.” Nicaise flops over in bed, and takes most of the covers with him. Laurent ignores him and types out a response: _Good night, Damen._ He places his phone face down on the nightstand. At the very least, Damen will be a good distraction from the horrors of being born a deVere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt a little bad for killing off Auguste in the prologue, so in apology, I'm posting this. I have no control over my word count either, sorry. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr.](http://jxkaste.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Megs and Damen. Thank you both!


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